Vampire Thriller (Book 2): The Living Night

by Jack Conner

  Now. It had to be now.

  He jumped off the rock that had become his station and left the shelter of the trees for a smoke. It had become a ritual, and the guards that hovered behind him had become accustomed to it, so much so that Jean-Pierre could tell that their level of readiness had tapered off. So much the better.

  He lit his last Pall Mall.

  As he did, he extended his mind out over the ridges and through the woods of the mountain the Libertarians had made camp on. Slowly, the cigarette burned, but he tried not to dwell on it. If his mind hadn’t found what it needed by the time the last bit of tobacco had turned to ash, he would have to go back inside the army’s shelter. From there, it was only a few feet down to where the chains waited.

  Come to me, my brothers, he thought. Come to Jean-Pierre.

  Before he had even expected it, he found them. Wolves. A whole pack of them—maybe two dozen in all.

  He permitted himself a grin as he let his mind open up a channel between himself and the animals. And yes, there, he could feel it, an ember embedded in their heads that was the Dark Lord’s finger. If Jean-Pierre had been stronger, he could’ve tapped into the mind of Sarnova himself, maybe exchanged some thoughts with the great leader, but now all he could do was manipulate the animals, his kindred. He only hoped that that would be enough.

  * * *

  About a mile away, up on one of the high ridges of the mountain, a group of five Libertarian scouts were just preparing to return to camp. Already, they could feel the heat on the horizon and knew it wouldn’t be half an hour before the sun was up. After they’d stuffed their gear back into their backpacks, one of them climbed up the little hillock, or ridge, and took a last look down at the slope below, which they had been assigned to monitor.

  “Jesus fuck,” he said, and the rest of them crawled up to the ridge to join him, careful to keep their heads low.

  Below, the ridge fell away to become a wide snow-covered slope, empty of trees until about three hundred yards down. There, from the dense woods, came the wolves. Fast.

  “Damn,” the first Libertarian said. “Come on, let’s get our heads down.”

  They crawled to the base of the hillock and stared grimly at each other. One of them removed his backpack and pulled out his radio, and within a minute he had Captain D’Aguila on the line.

  “This is Plato,” the Captain said, using his code-name. “Go ahead.”

  “North base, sir.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Wolf sighting, sir.”

  “How many?”

  “Dunno, sir. Maybe ten, fifteen. Headed up toward us, though. Maybe they got wind of us and are coming to investigate. If they continue their present course they should be on us within a minute or so. Sir, please advise.”

  “Can you get out of the area in time? I don’t want you having to burrow again.”

  “Yessir, we can get out. If we leave now.”

  “Then get back here, double-time. Out.”

  Less than ten seconds later, the Libertarians were jogging swiftly down the mountain. About a minute later, they heard the first of the wolves climbing over the ridge that they had just left.

  The wolves started howling.

  * * *

  Captain Raulf D’Aguila swore, shoving the radio handset into the chest of the man who’d handed it to him, in the process knocking the subordinate to the ground.

  “Men!” the Captain roared. “Gather ‘round.”

  His one hundred and fifty soldiers leapt off their asses and made a bee-line for him. Just then, and to Raulf’s supreme irritation, the radio man pressed the whining machine back at D’Aguila. For a moment, Raulf considered belting the man, then realized that someone was on the line.

  Growling, he put the handset to her ear.

  “This is Plato. Go ahead.”

  “This is east base,” the radio crackled.

  Raulf recognized the base as the nearest one. The soldiers on the other end of this line were stationed at a little ridge overlooking the precipice of the mountain and the woodland that bordered it.

  “I read you,” he said, irritated that the interference was making it difficult for him to hear.

  “Wolf sighting, sir,” came the reply. “About a dozen, coming from the north high ground. Please—”

  “Let me ask you this, soldier. While you’re talking to me, now, are you running?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then start!” He switched off the radio, tossing it to the ground as he stepped forward so that he could address his men, who were muttering back and forth.

  “Shut up!” he commanded, and they fell silent. “All of you, down in the tunnels. Bring your gear. Now go. Go go go! If any of you aren’t down there in two minutes, I will personally lop off your head!”

  As they scurried toward the trapdoors, Raulf scanned the immediate horizon for stragglers. After a quick inspection he was satisfied that there were none except for Jean-Pierre and the guards that surrounded him. They were turned to look at him, as if they’d seen all the commotion and were wondering what was going on, but with all the distance and snow, they were not able to hear him.

  Swiftly, he marched towards them.

  * * *

  Jean-Pierre savored the last few hits of his Pall Mall as he watched D’Aguila approach. If his plan was to work, it had to be now.

  “Come on,” one of the guards said, and gestured that they should all move toward their Captain, meet him half-way. As one, they started towards him ... and, again as one, they stopped and turned when they realized that the albino had not moved.

  “Come on, damnit!”

  Jean-Pierre remained still.

  Through the raging blizzard, Jean-Pierre heard D’Aguila roaring at the top of his lungs, “You! All of you! Get your asses over here! I mean NOW!”

  Jean-Pierre’s guards moved in swiftly, drawing the shiny sabers they wore at their hips.

  “Come now, Jean-Pierre,” said the man Jean-Pierre thought of as the warden. He spoke in a manner as if he were trying to communicate with a troublesome child. “Now isn’t the time to play hero.”

  Jean-Pierre smiled. Slowly, he raised his hands in a placating gesture. The motion seemed to alarm the soldiers. When they realized what he was doing, though, they relaxed.

  Jean-Pierre moved in a blur. In a flash too quick for most to see, Jean-Pierre reached out with his bare hand, took the leader’s saber by the sharp curved blade and yanked it free, ignoring the pain and blood. In an instant, he transferred the weapon to his other hand, gripping it deftly by the handle, and plunged it into the chest of the man to his right.

  The wounded man, with half the saber sticking out of his breast, lunged toward Jean-Pierre. The albino grabbed him by the protruding hilt and used this purchase to swing the man around, like a side of beef on a skewer, with such force that the momentum and weight of the stuck soldier knocked the next two over.

  The fourth guard—the disarmed warden—reached down to one of his fallen men and snatched up a saber.

  Jean-Pierre shoved his boot against the stuck man’s chest and pushed the writhing body off his blade. With a cry, the skewered man fell in a red wet heap to the snow.

  Already, the other two fallen guards were rising, and their leader was advancing with his flashing blade. Behind him, D’Aguila drew near.

  As if on cue, the guards froze and stared at something behind Jean-Pierre. Not willing to take the time to look around, he just stared at the faces of the men in front of him. Then he heard it.

  Several shades were, at a full run, bursting out of the wooded territory at his back and entering the clearing that separated the army’s temporary headquarters from the surrounding forest. Understanding that these shades must be the east scouting party, Jean-Pierre knew then that his plan was going to work.

  “Wolves!” cried one of the soldiers that had just entered the clearing. “Right behind us!”

  The east scouting party brushed by Jean-Pierre and p
ast his guards, running toward D’Aguila. Using his extrasensory powers, Jean-Pierre could smell the wolves, just fifty yards away and rushing fast towards the clearing in which Jean-Pierre stood.

  D’Aguila waved four of the east scout team on, but stopped the fifth one—apparently the leader. A few words were exchanged, and the east team’s leader glanced back at Jean-Pierre, whom he only seemed to be noticing for the fist time. He shrugged. D’Aguila patted him on the back and sent him toward one of the trapdoors that led into the frozen tunnels below. Within seconds, the leader followed his scouting team into the snow.

  Hesitantly, the warden of Jean-Pierre’s own little detail turned to see what D’Aguila was doing. The Captain trotted toward him. He was only ten feet from Jean-Pierre as he began to speak, but the albino never heard a word because, all at once, a loud chorus of at least a dozen wolves broke out.

  From the expression on D’Aguila’s face, Jean-Pierre guessed that the animals were closer than the east team’s leader had led Raulf to believe. There was a man that the albino did not envy.

  “Goddamnit!” said the Captain. “Come with me now, Jean-Pierre, or I swear by the gods that I’ll hunt you down and flay you alive. I’ll fucking feed you the strips of skin as I peel them off you!”

  Again, the wolves howled, and Jean-Pierre smiled, looking around at the quintet of immortals before him.

  “You could take me,” he admitted. “But it wouldn’t be before they got here. And when they get here, you’re finished. The Dark Lord will send helicopters and bomb the shit out of you. Whatever’s left, which won’t be much, he’ll send his army to deal with.”

  “Fucker!” snarled D’Aguila. “This wasn’t part of the deal!”

  “The deal?” Jean-Pierre snorted. “The deal was a farce. Now go back to your goddamned tunnels, I’ll turn into a wolf and no one will ever be the wiser. Or stay here and die. It’s that simple. Well? Go on, Captain.”

  Instead, D’Aguila stepped forward, removed the saber from the warden’s hand, and started toward the albino.

  “You’re a liar,” the Captain said. “You’ll alert Blackie. You’ll go back to the Castle. No. Either you come with me or I kill you now.”

  Jean-Pierre edged backward. “You’re being stupid, Captain.”

  “You know I’m right.” To the warden, he said, “Kill those wolves.”

  The Captain took another step, this time edging around Jean-Pierre, trying to cut him off from the wolves. He was now too close for the albino to break in that direction.

  Shit.

  The Captain took another step—

  Jean-Pierre bolted.

  D’Aguila roared behind him. With his heart pounding in his temples in the wind in his hair, Jean-Pierre ran in the only direction open to him: the cliff.

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  The Captain, newly gorged and powerful, gained on him, Jean-Pierre could hear his footsteps right behind him … and closing. There was no time to evade, no place to go … but forward.

  It was a long way down.

  Can I survive that fall?

  Gods help him, but he was about to find out.

  Just as D’Aguila closed the last few feet, Jean-Pierre reached the cliff and flung himself out into space. The gorge dropped below him, and he fell into it, trying to hold back his screams.

  * * *

  D’Aguila stared down at the diminishing shape of the albino as the werewolf plummeted toward the snowy ground far below. D’Aguila wanted little more than to fly down after him—it was always possible Jean-Pierre could survive, however unlikely—but he had an attack to prepare for.

  Chapter 14

  Damn them, Roche Sarnova thought as quit the War Room. Even though the Ambassador had united the rebellious factions among the Dark Lord’s flock, there continued to be major problems.

  Information still leaked to Subaire. Francois had supposedly ordered the leaks to plug themselves, having told them that Roche had infiltrated the network of spies and would soon know who the informants were. To accentuate this point, several of the leaks had met swift and not-so-accidental deaths. That should have stopped the problem, but it hadn’t. Subaire was still aware of the Dark Lord’s moves before he had set them in motion, and this fact alone was costing him the war. Sarnova blamed the Sangro Sankts.

  The hell of it was that his people were dying out there. Worse, they died for his dreams, not their own—they died for a vision of a world where all shades would have a home.

  I will not surrender. If he handed himself over to Subaire, he might as well fly into the sun. She wouldn’t kill him, but he would never really be able to live again.

  No, he knew what he had to do. He just didn’t know how to do it.

  He made his way into his expansive living quarters. There, lounging in an ornate oak chair by the den fireplace, was the Ambassador.

  Sarnova had expected him, but the sight of his old friend made him smile. Francois rose and they embraced warmly.

  “Coffee?” the Dark Lord asked, moving into the kitchen, where one of his mistresses wiped a counter. He patted her on the rump and brought out a bottle of liquor.

  “Coffee?” asked the Ambassador.

  “My own special brew,” Sarnova replied, pouring the liquor into a mug, which his mistress filled to the brim with hot coffee she’d brewed for his return.

  “I’d love some.”

  Once they were both relaxed, Roche dismissed the girl and turned to his friend.

  “Any news from the front?” Francois asked.

  “Nothing good. The whole thing sickens me. I’m seriously considering calling all my subjects together and telling them why the hell I’m waging this war. Right now they might think I’m just trying to punish Subaire for her disobedience. At first this was enough for them to fight for, but there have been too many deaths. My people deserve to know the truth.”

  Mauchlery said nothing, only waiting.

  The Dark Lord took a deep breath. “I’m thinking of organizing a vote.”

  “A vote?”

  “Maybe I was wrong in deciding what was best for my subjects. Perhaps they should have a say in whether or not the war continues.”

  Francois paused. “What if they vote in favor of surrender?”

  “Then I was a fool all along. I’ll stop the war and admit Subaire and her Half back into the Council. If they’ll come back. But I’m hoping my people are smarter than that, that they’ll appreciate the new world that I could give them.”

  “You didn’t think they would before.”

  “Back then I felt I needed the consent of the Council before announcing it to the general populace, and after seeing the reaction of the Council I knew there would be many dissenters among my people, so I proceeded along other avenues.”

  “Roche, your vision of an Undead Jerusalem is a good one, one worth the fight. However, it is a radical idea, going up against the longest-held beliefs of our people. You were right in wanting the consent of the Council first. Hell, that’s what it’s there for, to act as a senate of sorts. A sounding board.”

  “There are times when the Council’s a hindrance to the greater good. I’ve … been thinking that I should disband the Council.”

  “Then you would be a true tyrant. Many would see you as a Caesar. Some might move to strike you down. No, Roche, the tradition of the Council is a good one.”

  Sarnova sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Stop second-guessing yourself, my friend.”

  “Your words are reassuring, Francois, but I fear, in your deep heart, even you hold reservations.”

  Francois shrugged helplessly. “I’ve lived a long, long life, Roche, longer even than your own. I’m perhaps one of the oldest creatures under the sky, and for all of my centuries I’ve thought to keep the immortal presence a secret from humans. It’s harder for me to let go of those beliefs than it might be for someone younger. However, I am open-minded enough to accept your ideas.”

  His face saddened, a
nd he made an expansive gesture with his hands. “I fear that not all of our brothers and sisters are so inclined. Subaire, though wise and experienced, rejected your ideas, as did half of the Council. But there’s one thing you’re forgetting.”

  “Yes?”

  “That Subaire could have told the legions of your plan, of your Jerusalem. If even a good percentage of them agreed with Subaire’s conclusions, then you would now be dead—and it seems reasonable to conclude that they would.”

  “Yes.”

  “Instead, Subaire and her Half took only the soldiers loyal to them and fled. Admittedly, they did not flee peaceably, but they did not spread word of your plans. In effect, Subaire spared your life.”

  After some time, Sarnova inclined his head. “Perhaps she didn’t spread word of my plans because she feared that my subjects would accept the notion of my Jerusalem.”

  The Ambassador cast him a doubting glance.

  Roche gave another weary sigh and reached for his mug. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Subaire only wants things back the way they were.” A flash of anger swept through him, then was gone. “If that’s what she wants, she’s going to be sorely disappointed.”

  “Are you going to proceed with the vote?”

  “Oh, I was just thinking aloud. Still, the idea of some form of democracy does appeal to me. I’ve been a borderline tyrant for three thousand years. My thirst for power has been more than quenched. Now I want only to make the world a better place for those who follow me—and, I must admit, I’d like to be remembered as the man who united the mortal and immortal worlds.” He grimaced. “So how have things been going on your end?”

  The Ambassador seemed to welcome the change in conversation. “Well, things are stable. No one’s going to try to depose you anytime soon.” He took a breath. “But they’d like to.”

  “Colonel De Soto again?”

  “Primarily. He seems to be the leader of the more radical faction. If I could just get him to shut up, things would run more smoothly.”